Smashy, Bashy, Crashy, I'll Be Better in the Morning

I’m so scared to open a new Word document; whatever might show up next on the screen may be completely specious and illiterate.  M says I should write more. Perhaps he’s right. Perhaps I’ve been wasting too much time playing computer games that destroy my mind, making my sense of creativity soft and immobile. It has been so long since I created. I play my ukulele, I took my tap classes, but alas, I create nothing. I create absolutely nothing since I’ve created my children.

They’ve taken—or rather, I’ve taken, as I’m the one responsible for making them—my will to create, my joie de vivre of creation out of my bones and have used it for their elaborate train rail set-ups, their wooden block houses, their doll beds from cardboard boxes. They freely scribble on an easel with markers and crayons anything that pours forth from their small hands. I’m jealous of this. I can’t remember the last time I’ve created anything beyond dinner; lately even the most basic meals have been rushed, sloppy affairs where I’m trying to create something out of leftovers that have twice been re-animated.

How am I to get back to the flush of spasmodic existence that was my creative late teens and early twenties? Is it possible to recapture it somehow, like a rare butterfly, or is it ethereal, little more than dust motes in the afternoon sunbeams that seem to only be noticed by my cat?  Is this the end, or the limit of my intentional creative abilities? My brain feels so slow—so lackadaisical to spur forth knowledge that used to gush out of my once-eloquent mouth, that I feel my creative time is up.  If you’ve had children, maybe you feel the same. If not, well…I won’t say not to procreate, but I will say that you should plan to get all your good ideas out now, rather than wait for the slow mental decline that will meet you once the umbilical cord is forever severed.

Even at this very moment, as I look back at what I’ve written, I’m tired. I don’t want to read this, I don’t want to continue this note, this essay or whatever the hell it is…My brain is simply at its worst. My discipline is nil. All this at a time when most people are imagining their New Year’s Resolutions, their plans for a better start, a new life, a new endeavor. Sarcastic? Hardly. This is realism. This is my creative life now, and while I assume it has settled in, just like Milo when he reaches the Doldrums, I crave a Tic-Tock Dog to invigorate me once again.

Who or what will be my Tic-Tock? Certainly not my husband, and most certainly not my children. I’m not invigorated by my family members on a creative level anymore; the last time I was, I wrote a crappy blog that I felt no love for. Essays that mean little more than wasted digital space. I will not brag about my children teaching me peace or love or honesty or any other bullshit that parents brag about in other social networking sites. I’d feel more comfortable writing openly about the really awful stuff—the depression that comes with raising two children, the depression that settles in from the decision to stay at home full-time, rather than explore a desirous career, the depression that comes from knowing that I will never be the person that I thought I might like to be.

This life, at this time, is filled with little flecks of light that only manage to escape the majority of dark matter constantly swirling around…I used to keep waiting for the good stuff to happen: return of my libido, children sleeping through the night, a husband that doesn’t fall asleep putting the kids to bed, a room of my own to work in, a chance to pursue my shh-oh-so-secret desire to act, but alas, I’m still waiting and I’m tired of waiting. In the immortal words of B.B. King, “the thrill is gone.”

Post-script: Yes, therapy IS good. CBT is awesome, but if you can't see a piece of writing for what it is--a captured moment from my brain, spewed forth from my fingers onto the little black keys of the laptop--and you fear for my existence or some other silliness you've cooked up in your mind about me, then you simply need to stop worrying and start reading other people's cheerier bloggy bits of fluff, rather than dwelling on mine.

The Death of Facebook

 To my friends that are actually my friends that I connected with using the medium of facebook:

 HEY! If you love me, you'll email me or call me. I think the time has come to let facebook go. I'm not de-activating, I'm deleting my account. I'm not leaving the web, however. I'm going to Twitter, I'm on google, I've got 2 blogs, and I'll continue to use my ever-reliable Yahoo email address. This isn't an attack on any of you (it's not you, it's me). I've wasted too much time on here. I've put off the kids when I should have responded. I want to work more on our house. I need to paint some walls, bake some zucchini muffins, play my ukulele, and work on possible curriculum. If I edged myself off slowly, like a drug, I know I'd be back and I'd relapse into this world of constant updates and useless info. George Takei is fantastic, oh myyyy, but I'm leaving him behind to further explore my own universe. I've loved connecting w/so many of you via the fb medium, but until fb becomes less intrusive and more respectful of its users' rights, I will be absent from this realm. 

1/2/12 Update: I'm nuts--how on Mother Earth would I remember your birthday if I didn't have fb? No, really. I'll hang out w/fb a little longer, only if I can prove to myself that I don't need bragbook, but I do need a device to keep in touch with people I would actually converse with in person.  Facebook, you didn't win this round, as I shall dominate you, you engrossing, dangerous little chimp.

Well, I've been running. And running. And uke-ing (not puking). And the kids keep growing and coughing and eating and running and playing and screaming and fighting and reading and peeing and talking and giggling and wrecking and creating.

That's all I've got time for right now.

Sitting, Failing, Baking

As I'm sitting here, waiting for the cranberry-orange bread to finish baking, I'm neglecting the dishes, listening to jazz, ignoring the nagging need for sleep, I'm beginning to wonder if that tomorrow morning's 5K at 8am is such a good idea. For one, I'm getting another cold. Yes, ANOTHER virus, as I've gone an entire 3 days without some form of illness. I usually contract these bugs from my children, who are neither daycare kids or school kids, but instead are, I've decided, small, human petri dishes.

I've begun running. Did I mention that? Some mothers choose to start running to chase after their children. I've begun running so as to run FROM my children. SeaBass' whining hits a fever-pitch w/in 30 seconds of self-made dilemma, and Beatrice won't stop eating the cat food. These people are from my loins. I've fed them of my own body, yet somehow the cat's food tastes better, and whining is a more poignant form of communication than, say, talking quietly.

Whine, whine. More later. I should clean the cooked bread batter off of the stove before it looks good enough to eat.

Piece of the Past

Just a wee piece I wrote nearly three years ago about SeaBass and I.

Sea Bass Mama

I had a daydream yesterday as I was swirling my fingers around in the murky depths of our toilet: I was 22, I had my own apartment, and I told my future husband I loved him in the wee hours following my birthday party that evening. Everything was clean, beautiful, new, and shiny. Love—not just lust—but true love feels like that. I snap out of my daydream, and realize that it was all a lie; all those events did happen, they did feel like love, and they were actually a memory, not a daydream to escape into as my knees begin to ache on the bathroom floor. No, real love is swishing your 15-month-old’s poo-crusty diaper in the toilet, because there is no one else on this planet, galaxy, or universe that I love enough to do this. This is nasty. This is the wrong end of Italian bean soup I lovingly made for my family. And lovingly wiped up after it was flung at the floor with a smile. And lovingly washed away amidst the banshee screams from my son’s face.
Before I go on about what real love is and all the crap you expect to hear from a new mom, let me state this quite clearly: love and being dope-slapped into the bizarre world of parenting go hand in hand, and they’re both exceedingly messy, tiring, and frustrating. I am not a model parent. You will not see me in Gymboree. You won’t find me on the pages of a local parenting rag. You will, however, see me toting my little poo-flinger in a wrap down to the river on a sunny day so we can nurse and I can flash my breasts in public (the real goal of nursing mothers worldwide; we all hope to get into National Geographic or on the news or thrown off of airplanes for indecent exposure).
It has come to my attention, however, that I am not alone in my alternative parenting style. Apparently, there are other mothers and parents in this beer-soggy burg that also enjoy being part of a fringe group that use cloth diapers, make their own baby food, and generally try to live simple, thrifty, and socially responsible lifestyles. We keep a low profile, however, as we’re the same people that are hard to advertise to; my son got his junk mail within 2 weeks of his birth and we’ve been getting it since. He’s a fresh, potential consumer, easily marketed and marketable, and I’m wearing a sweater I’ve had since 1996. But I digress.
Here’s the thing: punk parenting isn’t easy, but it’s a hard-won satisfaction that is reinforced by the idea that I can raise an individual who isn’t a cog, who doesn’t take the easy way out, who can choose what he wants (I have a son, so I’m going to use the pronoun ‘he’, but you’re welcome to use whatever pronoun—if any—you want) to do with his life. I’m trying to teach him this in little ways, without creating animosity toward the freshly-scrubbed faces within the mainstream parenting world by showing him as much of his world as I can, as openly as I can.
For example, I was pulling Sea Bass (obviously not his real name, nor is it connected to the mean-spirited trucker in “Dumb and Dumber”) along in his red wagon on a post-holiday consumption walk, when what should I spy but a slightly stained coffeemaker on a neighbor’s lawn. This handy appliance was re-packaged in its replacement’s box (which had a few dangly bits of Xmas wrap on it); apparently the older model had been chucked for one with a few more bells and whistles. I could feel my fingers twitching. It had been months since my last big curb score (a pressed-board shelving system that now holds all our winter garb), and I wasn’t about to let this one slip by. However, in my nearly 10 years of scavenging and dumpster diving, I’ve learned a few caveats about the general consuming public:

A. If it works, but the former owner doesn’t want anyone else to have it (and they’re getting rid of it), the odds are high that they’ll purposely sabotage the item; i.e.: cut the cord on the appliance, break the glass bits, pour water on it, purposely put it out in the rain/extreme cold/heat, dump nasty trash on it, etc.

B. They’re lazy. Even if it can be fixed (re-wiring a plug on a lamp, for example), they probably won’t bother. Although, sadly, many conscientious consumers understand planned obsolescence and don’t give their products a second thought after they fail.

C. They love the newest and best. Case in point, my new old coffeemaker.

I did a brief inspection of the cast-off: carafe unbroken, cord intact, burner plate still attached. A thorough washing and a bottle of vinegar later, said coffeemaker is in perfect, working condition in its new home, happily percolating for some very grateful caffeine junkies.
I would like to add that my son looked at me like I was asking him to get out and push when I nudged the coffeemaker behind him in the wagon. “Baby, isn’t this exciting? We found a coffeemaker!” This was followed up with a worried half-whine/grunt and an impatience wiggle (as in, “Fine, good, I’m glad for you and the box. Can we please keep moving now that my already very small testicles are currently non-existent in this 20 degree weather?).
To me, this is showing my son what love is. It’s walking instead of driving, it’s re-using other people’s throw-aways, it’s swishing a cloth diaper cover in the toilet so that, in some small way, I’m giving him a friendlier, smarter, healthier world that he is happy to call his home.

Sticky Chunks for Selfish Reasons

This is the time of year when I begin to think about fall. 85 degrees, 70% humidity, children whining and expiring before my eyes due to excessive heat. I'm whining and expiring before YOUR very eyes! Actually, at this very moment, I'm hiding in our fairy room (for those of you unfamiliar to the fairy room, this is where all of mama & papa's special toys are kept--no, not those toys, you filthy beast! Sewing machine, printer, loads of cds, precarious books on perches, paints, needles, artwork, old journals, a shredder; ie, things that little hands should not touch).

This room--a sort of room of our own (mine and Michael's) will probably be forfeited to Beatrice, should we live here long enough; Sebastian's room is really the multi-purpose diaper-changing/sleep space/clothing storage area, but he doesn't seem to mind, as long as he has his fire fighter lamp...and his firetruck rug...and his world map...and his potty poster (stickers he earned for each successful pee trip when we were in training mode--or commode). I'm going to miss this room. When the sticky chunks from the children go flying, this is where I like to hide (usually with permission, so as not to leave Michael to simply track my dust cloud as I sprint away). Virginia had her own room, hell--so did Pandora--is it wrong to want to keep this room? A place for the holey shirts to collect, sadly awaiting mending; a refuge for the stuffed animals that have been bitten apart by a tiny teether; a landing strip for the airborne internet signal to alight; I shall miss them all dearly, should I sacrifice this space.

I've got a while yet; it's fortunate for me that Beatrice likes the taste of coffee (which is hopefully stunting her growth) and has a spirit for adventure; she might be content on a shelf, or perhaps in the hammock-shaped lens of the light fixture...

You Can't Breastfeed a Baby Bird

So, I go outside to take the laundry off the line, and I do a full stop, dry cloth diaper in hand, to take in the small, pink lump that offered a change to the gray slab pavement. I walk over carefully, noting that I'm a little scared. I look closer and see that the little lump is breathing. A pink, translucent little critter is free-loading on my yard...and I realize it's a baby bird with no home. I need to digress here:

Shortly after the birth of little SeaBass, my midwife told me that, "when you become a mother, you become a mother to the whole world." No truer words have been spoken. When a kid cries, even if I know it's not one of my own, I'll look to see if I can help. I can't stand idly by anymore if anyone needs help. I just can't. I used to be much frostier than this; what was another whiny kid? A nuisance. Now? Oh, my...

My breasts fill with milk as I size up this helpless, probably dying creature. What the hell could I do? If it were me, pre-children, I'd say, "eh, an animal will get it and put it out of its misery. That's nature. Sucks to be the bird, but someone else will get an appetizer." I'm not horrified at that pre-babe me, but I'm glad she's gone. I'm a much softer, more tender me, and I can't help but think that I need to try to do my best to give this wee little creature a fair shot. My first thought: put on gloves, and hold the bird gently in a soft cloth until I can figure out what to do next.

What did I do next, you may ask? Well, it should be obvious, really...30 years ago--heck, even 15 years ago, people would reference an encyclopedia to figure out how to take care of a stranded bird; I did the modern thing: reference the all-knowing beastie we so lovingly turn to in times of crisis or drunkenness (especially when seeking out old classmates/crushes): the internet!

I'm told by the National Audubon Society that not only should I do nothing for this bird, but that it is illegal to harbor a wild bird in one's home. Okay, too harsh. Need a more liberal approach to bird-rearing...ask.com suggests the same, but to also consider putting the bird back in the nest (if I can find it) or, if it's feathered, leave it alone to let its parents take care of it. If it is unfeathered and has no nest, one could try to build a simple nest for it out of a berry container and some straw or paper strips and place it in a tree; the parent will find it and take care of it. Regardless, one should NOT FEED the bird.

This is where it gets difficult (although it was already difficult doing the research with one hand while the other was holding a peeping baby bird); I gave directions to Michael about how to build a nest and we managed to put together a decent home made out of 1/4 of an egg carton and shredded paper towels. I took it outside and nestled it into the lilac bushes (the nearest tree-ish home from whence the wee bird could have emerged), and placed the ugliest, most dearest thing inside. And then I checked on it. And then I walked away. And then I checked on it. And then I walked away. Repeat this 3 more times. I felt invested. I felt responsible. I felt like a mother to this bird's world.

Michael and I (and Bea, who was being slung by Michael) went inside, and I felt like I did something for the little bird, but I felt anxious. What if I moved the bird too far away? What if its mother gave up on it? What if it was a runt and meant to die in the first place? I conceded to myself that at least I gave it a more comfortable way to die, amongst the fragrance of the lilacs, the gentle breeze, the warm, green leaves, and the sounds of its brethren, rather than to face a gruesome, painful death entailing a slow mastication of its flesh by ants, mites, bugs, or other critters...To die peacefully in the trees must at least FEEL better than to be eaten alive, right?

I watched the egg-carton nest-condo on and off for an hour from the kitchen window, waiting for mama or papa to show up. Everytime a bird was in the slightest proximity to the lilacs, I would wonder (sometimes out loud), like some over-anxious foster mother waiting for the new adoptive parents to show up, "is that the one? That robin? I bet that robin is the mama. Or that fat sparrow. No, definitely the robin."

Yeah, go ahead and laugh...it doesn't stop there, either--no, in my addled brain, fueled with mama-milk hormones (prolactin's the biggie), I decided I needed to feed the bird. Seriously. Okay, by now you're probably wondering if I ate a few worms, vomited them up into a cup, and sucked up the snack w/a syringe for baby, right? Well, you're right about the cup and the syringe, but that's where it stops. The real craziness is that the only thing I could think to give this bird was a teeny amount of human baby formula (I have some from when I could not nurse due to a medicine that I had to take for a few days). Prepped, sucked into the syringe, and yep--baby bird drank some, desperately clinging onto the mouth of the syringe as if it were mama herself. I nearly cried.

I'm sure that in the end, it'll have been me that killed the bird. It might still be alive out there, but I'm guessing it has already died of exposure or possibly indigestion; sure, we've seen grown birds eating cheese before, but this is nonfat cow milk with a shitload of crazy human-growth vitamins. A tasty last meal, perhaps? A constipating cork of goo that overwhelmed an underdeveloped digestive system? All of the above. I couldn't leave it alone. I couldn't leave it unfed. The poor little thing didn't stand a chance.